


Forget Me Not

by PropShopHannah



Series: Throne of Glass prompts and asks [13]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Manorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PropShopHannah/pseuds/PropShopHannah
Summary: Anon asked: What about an au where dorian dies in the last battle, but leaves manon pregnant and in the birth of the witchling she can feel him with her and the baby? NOTE: There is a happy, smutty ending.





	1. Chapter 1

When Dorian Havilliard was born, people from all over the kingdom came to see the new prince. They brought him gifts, and celebrated his birth. No one took notice of the old crone who stood in line to see him. She was dressed in rags and carried no gifts for the newborn prince. She way ugly and crippled and hunched. But if you offered her kindness, then you might have noticed that she was young and beautiful and gifted with blessings of words laced with enchantment.

When she came to stand in front of the baby prince she said:

_ To you, I bestow the gift of the gods. A magic so rare and powerful that it can do anything you ask of it. But easy paths will not fall at your feet. You will not have the family for which you wish. All the happiness and love and loyalty in your life you must earn. And one day, you will be called upon to make a sacrifice. Of what, only the gods know, but if you please them, then your legacy will be secured. Forget you, they will not. And as a great king you shall forever be known.  _

_ Many blessings, Dorian Havilliard, and a long life to you. _

No one noticed her leave, nor remembered her words. 

And no one ever saw her again.

 

\--------

 

“Go,” Dorian shouted. Aelin’s face crumbled into a mess of tears and blood and trembling. Rowan put his hands on her shoulders, ready to pull her to her feet. The world was shattering on all sides. She wrapped her arms around her friend, Dorian Havilliard, one last time.

“Thank you,” was all she could say. Dorian couldn’t hold back his own tears. He kissed her cheek, then let her go. Rowan pulled the queen to her feet.

“Thank you,” Rowan said. “I will never forget you, or this gift. I swear on my life that the world will remember the sacrifice you made this day.” 

Dorian smiled at Rowan, nodded, then coughed up blood. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to be brave.

_ My name is Dorian Havilliard, and I will not be afraid. _

They’d killed Maeve and had tricked Erawan through the Wyrdgate. They had not known until a few days ago, that it was a stationary object–likely rooted through every universe that had ever existed. Fenrys and Connall had been the key. Their magic to jump through the folds and fabric of space had allowed them to hold the curtain of reality back, opening a door. And there, in the ruins of Maeve’s old castle at Doranelle, a crumbling temple archway, had been the Wyrdgate.

Fenrys and Connall held the fabric of reality open, and the others had lured Erawan inside. There had been a bloody battle, but they’d gotten Erawan through the gate. They’d closed it behind him, then they’d reforged the Lock. Now all that was left to do was to turn the Eye of Elena one last time, and officially return the Wyrdkeys to the gate.

The only problem was that one of them had to stay to turn it. The power that would erupt would be too much, and if Fenrys and Connall kept the doorway open, the blast of magic could be devastating to their world.

Dorian had been mortally wounded, his magic drained. They were all drained. Aelin’s fire magic was gone, the iron of the Ironteeth witches had melted–forced through the gate when they’d cleansed the land of the Valg.

Dorian knew he would die before they found a healer. He knew it had to be him. 

He slumped against the Wyrdgate, right next to where the Eye of Elena was fit perfectly into it. He could be the one to give it the final turn. He would be the one.

_ It’s not so bad,  _ he thought to himself,  _ to die for your friends. _

He opened his eyes.  _ Not so bad to die for the woman you love either. _

Manon Blackbeak stood in front of him. Tears and red blood streamed down her face. 

“Witchling,” he whispered. 

She fell to her knees. 

Dorian reached for her as best he could. His left arm lay utterly useless at his side.

“No,” she said. Dorian had never seen her cry. He thought it might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

“No.” She clung to him.

“Witchling,” he said, coughing up blood. She gave a cry of distress at the sound. She wiped the blood from his lips. “You are a queen now. You have to go. The curse on the Wastes is broken. Your people need you. One of us”– _ she sobbed harder _ –“has to live.” 

She shook her head and said, “I won’t leave you. I just found you. I won’t leave you.”

From behind her, Fenrys began yelling about the doorway. He and Connall couldn’t hold it for much longer.

“Witchling, listen to me. I love you. More than anything in the entire universe, I love you. And that’s why you can’t stay here. You have to go. You have to live. The witches need you, the Thirteen need you. Go, and find out what it’s like to be Manon Crochan. What it’s like to be free t-to love and live in this n-new world.” 

Dorian could not hold back his own tears as Manon fell onto his chest, wrapping her arms around him, clinging to him, smelling him. He smelt her, too.

She smelt like wild flowers, and starlight, and–

_ Home,  _ he thought. _ She smells like home. _

“We always knew it would end like this,” he said. “I was always going to go first.”

“But you were supposed to be old and wrinkled,” she sobbed.

“I think I would have hated that,” he said. She looked at him then. “I would have hated aging while you stayed young. Remember me as I am now. Young and handsome–”

“–and the love of my life,” her voice broke. She gasped and sobbed and choked. “You’re the love of my life. I can’t lose you. It’s n-not fair. I just st-started living. How am I supposed t-to do this without you? I need you,” she sobbed, “I’m scared. Dorian, I’m scared.” 

His heart– _ his soul _ –broke in his chest.

“I’ll always be with you, witchling.” He needed her to know that. Needed her to have whatever strength she might find in those words. She shook her head.

“I’m pregnant,” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me. I’m pregnant. Please,  _ please  _ don’t leave me.”

She sobbed onto his chest, and Dorian felt the universe, time, stop. 

Everything just stopped. 

It. Stopped.

He’d never wanted to live as much as he did in that moment. At those words. Had never had so much to lose as he did then. He cried. He kissed her and cried.

“How far along?”

“A month, I think. Maybe two,” she sobbed. “I was going to tell you when this was over. I didn’t want t-to distract you.”

“Witchling,” he whispered into her hair. There was nothing he could do. 

So he told her he loved her, he told her that he would always be with her, he told her that she had to go–had to live for him and their witchling.

Fenrys bellowed at them to hurry.

“Chaol,” Dorian yelled. Manon tightened her arms around him. His best friend, his brother, was there then, kneeling before him. A hand on Dorian’s shoulder.

They’d already said their goodbyes, already told each other how much they loved one another and that they were thankful for the time they’d shared.

The Wyrdgate rattled.

Panic flashed through the three of them. They needed to lock it. Needed to officially return the keys and end this once and for all.

“S-she’s pregnant. I need you t-to get her out of here. To help her, please.  _ Please _ ,” Dorian begged. “Adarlan’s heir. My heir, our”– his voice broke –”witchling.” 

He saw in Chaol’s eyes that his last wish would be obeyed. Chaol had always been a protector, a guardian. This he could do.  _ This _ Dorian would entrust to no one but his brother.

Chaol nodded.

“Go, Manon. Be the queen you were born to be. Raise our child–our witchling. Chaol will help you. He’s promised to help you. But you have to go. You can’t stay here. I’ll always be with you. I’ll find a way, I promise. I’ll always be at your side.”

“I love you,” she said, kissing him.

“I love you, too. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Dorian, I love you. I love you.”

The Wyrdgate shook violently and everyone was yelling– _ screaming _ –for them to hurry up.

“Chaol,” Dorian said, as he watched him haul Manon up off the ground. Dorian put his finger in his mouth and used his teeth to pull off a ring he’d worn since his fifteenth birthday. A supposed heirloom from Gavin. He held it out to Chaol. 

He found his resolve then and spoke with the voice of a king. 

“We were married,” he said. “You and Nesryn were witnesses. Aelin and Rowan, too. Tell them,” he swallowed thickly. He could do this. For her, he could do this. “Tell them to say that. For me, my dying wish. She’s Adarlan’s queen now. She carries my heir. Let no one question that. Ever.”

Chaol took the ring from his king. He understood. Understood that a bastard would never get the crown. That after news of his death, of Georgina’s and Hollin’s, that every lord, duke, and distant relative would try to lay claim to the throne. This was the only way.

“You have my word,” Chaol said. Dorian looked to Manon.

“I’m sorry I won’t get to meet our witchling. Tell them that I love them, and that I’m sorry. Papa’s sorry he won’t get to be there.”

He did not have the heart to tell her goodbye.

So he said, “Do not forget me.”

With an arm around her ribcage, Chaol began hauling Manon toward the doorway. She fought and screamed and told Dorian she loved him and that she could never forget him, not ever. She knew she couldn’t stay. She had a responsibility to their people, their witchling. She could not die here with him.

Dorian waved one last time as his friends gathered around the portal opening. They were crying and blooded and all staring at him.

None of them said goodbye. 

Then the opening closed, and everything went dark. 

But he thought that maybe he saw black silhouettes standing around him–blocking out what might have been the glow of distant stars.

_ I’ll always be with you, witchling, _ he thought as he reached over and turned the Eye of Elena one last time.

 

\-----

 

Manon Blackbeak stood there. Staring at the place where the doorway had just been. At the crumbling stone ruin a few yards back where the Wyrdgate had been. Where Dorian had been. The sun was blinding. Everything was blinding. 

The silence in her ears was deafening.

She took a few steps forward.

_ Right here, right here. He was right here. _

She might have said the words out loud.

She stumbled toward the ruin. Stopped when she got to the place where Fenrys and Connall had pulled back the curtain between worlds and had held open a doorway for them.

_ A veil. It had been like a veil. _

She turned back around, taking a few steps. She did that several times. Waving trembling hands in front of her as if she might be able to detect the fabric of the world, as if she might be able to open that doorway again and go get him.

“Right here,” she whispered. “He was…” 

_ Manon.  _ A deep male voice. Familiar, but far away. Muffled somehow. She ignored it. She turned around again, taking a few steps.

“Right here right here right here.” Her voice was barely more than a mumble.

_ Manon.  _ She blinked. Her eyes found the crumbling archway where the Wyrdgate had been. She walked to it. Stumbled. Put her hands on it. Ran her hands over the stone. Fell to where Dorian had just been sitting. Where she’d just seen him sitting. His blood was still warm on her skin. 

His red blood. His blood was red, her blood was now red. Iron had melted. The Valg were gone. Her blue blood was gone. Still a witch, but not Ironteeth. Not anymore. The Valg blood was gone. Erawan was gone– _ he _ should still be here. He was supposed to be here.

King and queen and he was supposed to be here.

“Right here right here right here. He was right here I touched him right here he was right here.” She didn’t notice how badly she was shaking. How badly she was crying.

_ Manon. _ There was that voice again. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t. She blinked. 

It was too bright, the sun was too bright. 

Darkness. There had been darkness. He’d been in darkness.

She’d left him in darkness.

_ I think she’s broken. _ Another voice. Softer, feminine. Manon ignored it, too.

He’d just been right there. She’d just felt him, had just inhaled him. Had just filled herself with his scent. Like a winter wind and citrus and man. And–

She stood again and walked back to where the doorway had been.

“We have to go back, we have to go back”–she panted–“left him”–another pant–“we left him”–she gasped–“I can’t leave him. I can’t–” She felt the bile rise in her throat at the words she could not say. Could not say, but did. 

“I left him.”

_ Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods _

“Manon.” That voice again, and a hand was on her shoulder. She looked up. Chaol. It was Chaol. He was crying.  _ Why is he crying? _

“Manon, I’m going to take you home, okay?” She shook her head. What a funny word,  _ home _ . What a funny, stupid, stupid, stupid word. Home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t any one building or house. Home was a family. A person. A person you called family. A place you felt safe. 

She’d left him, left her safe place, left him in the dark.

She shook her head.

“The tent. I-I-I have to, have to go back to our tent. Dorian will be there soon. He-he’ll be there soon. He comes home before dark. Before the sun sets. I-I have to go. He’s–”

She was shaking so badly that Chaol thought she might fall over. He put his hands on her shoulders just in case. She was having trouble looking at him, at anything. Her eyes were wild, darting back and forth as she worked through her thoughts.

“I’m going to take you to Adarlan, Manon. Okay?” He pulled the ring Dorian had given him and slid it onto Manon’s ring finger. It was too big. He took it off and then slid it up her thumb. It was still loose, but it wouldn’t fall off. He’d get it resized. He’d remember to get it resized.

Manon stared at it. Frozen on the spot, shaking head to toe.

“You’re Adarlan’s queen now,” he said. “You carry his heir. It’s my duty to take care of you. I  _ promised _ to take care of you. We’ll go home, and we’ll figure it out, okay? The Thirteen can come, we’ll all help you, okay?” Her hands were on Chaol’s arms now as if she knew she needed to steady herself.

“But. We’re not…” Manon said.

“You are,” Aelin said, coming up beside them. She moved one of Chaol’s arms and stood before Manon, cradling the witch’s face in her hands. “You’re his wife. Rowan and I will both attest to it. He loved you. More than I’ve ever seen him love anything.” She tried to smile and failed. She wrapped her arms around Manon. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Manon flinched. She got her arms between her and Aelin and pushed the queen away, staggering back. Her eyes were wild as she glanced between Chaol and Aelin and everyone else who was now staring at her.

“He’s still here,” she said, backing up. “I still feel him. He’s not–he’s not g-gone.” 

But in that moment, in the eyes of their friends, she knew. Knew that he was gone. That it didn’t matter if she could still feel him. Didn’t matter if that thread between them still glowed with warmth and love. He was gone. And he was never coming back.

She turned and ran from the ruin. Through the archway that in another place and time was a Wyrdgate. There was an open field behind it, and she ran until she found herself in the middle of it. Until her grief overtook her and she collapsed.

She cried and screamed and hit the earth with her fists. This wasn’t fair. This could never be fair. Her whole life she’d been taught not to use her heart, not to love or cry or feel anything at all. She’d been beaten and abused for decades. Had learn to hide who she was for decades. And then, when she was just starting to learn what feelings and love were, that it was okay to have them, to feel them– _ gone _ . He was gone. She had lost him, and she would have to live for eternity with her broken heart. Her grief.

She vomited into the grass. 

She had no strength to wipe her mouth. To get up. To do anything. And so she lay there, crying still. Screaming still. Cursing her existence for the happiness it had dangled in front of her then ripped away.

She huddled against the ground, laying her forehead on the back of her forearm. Her other arm wrapped around her stomach.

She heard the boom of wings and the presence of another thread that ran through the world and connected to hers. But it was not Dorian’s. 

So she did not care.

 

***

 

Asterin Blackbeak landed in the field a few yards away from Manon. A few paces behind her queen, she saw Chaol Westfall. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what had happened. She knew. Knew there was only one reason why Chaol would be standing there and not Dorian.

She went to her queen.

“Manon? Manon?” she said, pulling her cousin up from the ground. Manon melted into Asterin’s arms. She started crying, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She looked over at Chaol, hoping that he might tell her this wasn’t happening. That this was just a misunderstanding. But in his eyes, she only saw the sorrow of a man who’d lost his best friend, his brother, his king.

“He was mine,” Manon sobbed. “He was  _ mine _ .”

“I know,” Asterin cried, smoothing her cousin’s hair and rocking her. “I know he was. I know.” 

Abraxos came over then. And Asterin knew that the wyvern understood. He laid down in the grass and curled himself around them, placing his head next to Manon. He whined–the only form of crying he was capable of.

She wasn’t sure how long they’d stayed like that. How long she and Manon might have cried. But the sun was setting. The others had left. Manon no longer sobbed, but silent tears still ran down her face. She just stared into the distance. At nothing.

Asterin kissed the top of Manon’s head.

“I’m going to take you back to–” she didn’t know where to take her. They had no place to stay in the Wastes. The war had ravaged the land. There were few places that were safe right now. “Vesta’s aerie. We’ll go to Vesta’s aerie. We’ll tell her we’re moving in, okay?” Asterin tried to smile as she took Manon’s head in her hands.

There was nothing left in her cousin’s eyes. Asterin thought she might be in shock.

Chaol walked forward. His face was ashed and salty with dried tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t,” he shook his head, “I don’t know how these things work, but she’s pregnant. An-and I promised Dorian”–his voice broke–“that I would take care of her. Is it safe for her to ride a wyvern? I can’t–I don’t want anything to happen.”

Asterin gave him a weak smile–he’d lost his family, too. She waved him over and decided that Chaol Westfall was a good man. His loyalty was his biggest strength and maybe his biggest weakness, but he was a guardian. She’d heard that he’d come from Anielle–a people known for their legendary warriors and guardians. He was a good man, and he would protect Manon.

He knelt beside them, and Asterin grabbed his hand. He cried and turned his face away from them–but he did not pull away from her touch.

“It is safe,” she said. “Manon will ride with me. Abraxos will carry you.”

Soon they were packed and ready to leave. And Asterin Blackbeak was surprised when Chaol Westfall did not flinch or protest when Abraxos launched him into the air.


	2. Chapter 2

Manon Havilliard hadn’t gotten out of bed in weeks. Maybe it was because she was too sad, or maybe it was because the sheets on this bed, the items in this room–still smelt like Dorian.

Asterin and Chaol had decided against going to Vesta’s aerie. If they were to make everyone believe that Manon and Dorian had been married, then she’d need to stay in Adarlan. From there, she could easily travel to the Wastes if she needed to, but she never did. Instead the Thirteen traveled for her.

The castle had been destroyed and looted, but nothing had really been taken from the king’s old rooms. He’d not been one for finery. Not really. She supposed only his wardrobe and maybe some of his old rapiers showed his wealth, but nothing else.

The newly rebuilt tower room was filled with his books and maps and old artifacts–nothing a starving citizen of Rifthold would have wanted or needed when the city had fallen to the Yellowlegs. She was grateful for that small favor. Grateful that she might get to sleep in his bed, among his things, in his shirts. Sometimes she wondered what he would say if he could see her. 

She wondered if he would even recognize her.

She was not an Ironteeth witch anymore. There were none left. When they’d cleansed the Valg from the land, every trace of them had been erased. Her eyes were still gold, but not the smoldering pools of liquid gold they’d once been. They were more ordinary now, dulled. 

She blinked in the dim light of morning. Asterin stirred beside her. 

Her cousin had started sleeping in the bed with her. First, so that she would not cry herself to sleep alone, and then because she knew Manon needed someone to be with her. Someone to hold onto when the sadness became too much, and she needed to be reminded why she was still here. Why she had to keep going.

Manon was glad her cousin never left her. She supposed they might be more like sisters now. Asterin helped her shower and dress and eat…

Eating was hard. She’d had no appetite since he’d died. But she knew she must eat, even if it was a chore. She must. She was not eating for her, but for the part of Dorian that still survived. She would do anything to make sure their witchling survived.

A wave of nausea rolled through her. She shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths. In her nose, and slowly out her mouth. In her nose, and out her mouth.

“Do you need the bucket?” Asterin said.

“Not sure.” Her cousin got up from the bed and fetched the bucket anyway. Manon took a few more deep breaths. She pushed the ring on her finger around in circles. The motion calmed her. 

Chaol had gotten Dorian’s ring resized for her. She never took it off. It warmed around her finger, and she felt herself fill with a distant glow from that thread that used to connect her to Dorian. 

Maybe some part of the king was still looking out for her. Maybe he’d never left, not really.

The nausea passed, and Manon relaxed. Asterin started a fire in the large fireplace and got back into bed.

“I remember I had the worst morning sickness,” Asterin said. “The only reason your grandmother found out I was pregnant was because I threw up all over her shoes.”

Manon turned to her cousin. Asterin had the biggest smile on her face.

“I thought she was going to take my head off right then and there. I’d never seen the bitch so pissed.” 

“What happened?”

“There was someone else there… Sorrell, or some other witch with a good sense of smell. She pushed me away from the Matron then announced that I was pregnant. The old bitch sure-as-shit changed her tune then. She fuckin’ loved me after that. Well, not  _ love _ –you know what I mean.” Manon nodded.

Once the sun was fully up, Asterin left to attend to business on Manon’s behalf. Today was Samhain. The first holiday since the war had ended. Adarlan would hold a large celebration, which Chaol had excused Manon from attending citing her pregnancy sickness. But someone had to go to the Wastes to represent the queen. To make sure the witches there felt as if they had not been abandoned. 

Asterin would be leaving for the Wastes before any of the celebrations started. She’d be back in a few days. Manon didn’t want her to leave, but Sorrell and Vesta would be with her. Maybe she’d ask one of them to sleep in the bed with her. Maybe one of them would just volunteer and she wouldn’t have to ask. Maybe she should just get used to sleeping alone.

A tiny pulse on that thread that used to ground her to Dorian. She blinked. 

She was not alone. The witchling. She had the witchling, his witchling, their witchling. Manon eased back into the pillows, wrapping an arm around her stomach. 

_ Yes,  _ she thought.  _ A part of him is still with me. _

Manon slept for most of the day. Only waking to vomit and eat. She hated that she couldn’t get out of bed. Hated that she couldn’t just snap out of it like she’d used to be able to.

Maybe it was because the Ironteeth blood was gone, or maybe because the hole he’d left in her chest was too big to close so soon. Maybe it would never close. Maybe it would always be there.

_ Tomorrow, _ she thought for the hundredth time.  _ Tomorrow I’ll be better. _

 

***

 

_ Witchling _

Just past midnight, Manon woke to the whisper of a touch along her cheek. She sat up, scanning the room. 

It had been a dream. She’d been dreaming. Dreaming of him. She ran a hand over her cheek. It was wet. The touch that’d woke her had not been from Dorian. It had been a tear. One of many that she’d shed for him.

She settled back into bed. She twirled the ring around her finger. She’d never thought about being married. Had been raised to believe it was inappropriate for Ironteeth to want such things. 

But she’d wanted to marry Dorian. 

She’d thought about it in those months they’d spent together. Those months where she’d started to learn that she didn’t have to be the White Demon, or the Blackbeak Heir, or her grandmother’s creature. She’d only just started to learn who Manon Crochan might be. And sometimes… she’d dreamed of a white dress, of a handsome blue-eyed king, and a family.

She shut her eyes tight against the tears.

_ Witchling _

She opened them. There was no one there. There never was. Just the memory of the words he might have whispered had he still been there with her. A waking dream, a hallucination. That was all it was. So Manon Havilliard turned from the room and slept. 

And so she dreamed.

 

***

Chaol Westfall had had enough.

He burst through the chamber doors and marched in. His queen barely lifted her head.

“We’re not doing this anymore,” he said, pulling back the curtains. The mid-morning sun bathed the room in golden light. It was blinding. She shielded her eyes.

“You’re getting out of bed. Up,” he said, pulling the covers off her. A  _ bold  _ move, especially for him. Manon eyed him with a predator's gaze. She cocked her head, Nesryn’s footsteps sounded down the hall. A second later–

“Chaol Westfall, leave her alone,” she commanded from the doorway.

“Get up,” Chaol said again, throwing a black tunic and pants at her. “That’s an order. Meet me on the training field in five minutes. Bring a sword.” Then he left, taking the Captain of the Guard with him–but not before Nesryn gave Manon a sympathetic look.

But Manon got out of bed. She dressed and was on the training field three minutes later.

Sorrel, Vesta, Chaol, and Abraxos greeted her. 

“Two laps,” Chaol said, somewhat wide-eyed. “Follow me.” He started running. Manon followed, Sorrel and Vesta flanking her. 

The morning air was crisp with the promise of winter. The sun was warm on her face. How she’d ever let herself forget how good it felt to be outside she’d never know. 

A wave of nausea hit her on the second lap. She wasn’t tired, wasn’t out of breath, but–she vomited in the grass. Sorrell moved to lay a hand on her back.

“Don’t touch her,” Chaol barked. Sorrell snarled. They might not have iron teeth and nails anymore, but they could still do damage. They were still witches. And Sorrel had taken to carrying fighting knives, and a wicked pair or claw-tipped gloves that fit over her hand like a skeleton of steel. They hid easily inside loose trouser pockets.

Manon stood, wiping her mouth on the back of her arm. “Good” was all Chaol said before they began running again.

Then it was sword fighting. They practiced outside on the training field. Manon tried not to notice the small groups of people now standing along the edges, beyond the fence. All of them looked at her.

“Who are they,” Manon said as she parried and moved left.

“Members of your court,” Chaol said, blocking her next blow.

“Do they live at the castle?”

“No.” Their swords clashed like lightening. “They’re here for a meeting later today on the relief effort. There is still a lot of rebuilding that needs to be done.”

“Is that why you picked today to get me out of bed?” She tapped her sword against his thigh.

“Good,” he said, “again.” They reset their positions. He attacked first. Manon had to admit, he was skilled with a sword. “They haven’t seen you since…” She knew he was going to say funeral. He feigned left, and she blocked him on the follow through. He grunted at her immortal strength. “It’s good for them to see you,” he said. “Prevents the wrong kind of gossipping.”

“What are they saying?” She stepped left as he went right–but he tapped her shoulder as she pivoted. They reset.

“There was concern that your condition might make you unfit to rule two kingdoms.” She didn’t know if he was talking about her grief, or the pregnancy. Probably both. 

Beside them, Sorrell elbowed Vesta hard in the face. She dropped her sword.

“You bitch. You broke my nose,” Vesta said, smiling. Red blood ran down her face, and she made a show licking it for the small audience of viewers to see.

“Is that part of your plan, too?” Manon said, jerking her head to her sentinels. Chaol smiled.

“Your majesty,” he said, resetting their positions, “that you would think me so scheming–” Vesta punched Sorrell, breaking her nose. Red blood spewed everywhere.

“Ladies,” Chaol warned in a low whisper. They glared at him. “ _ Witches _ , the goal here is not to make them think you’re part of a street gang.”

“Sorry,” Sorrell said, smiling with blood stained teeth.

Manon gave a faint smile. The goal was for the humans to see them bleed red blood, not blue.

A wave of nausea rolled through Manon. She clamped down on it as best she could. She was almost out of the first trimester, then this gods-awful vomiting would stop. Or so she’d been told. She stilled and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in through her nose.

_ Oh, gods, _ she thought.  _ Not here. _

“Bucket?” Chaol said. Manon nodded and held her sword out for someone to take. She heaved but held it in with a hand pressed to her mouth. She got down on her knees, just as Chaol placed a bucket in front of her–not a moment too soon.

She braced her arms on the ground and vomited.

It was as if her whole body were devoted to the action. Not one ounce of her will could be placed elsewhere. She felt vulnerable and embarrassed. Nothing but a pregnant woman prone on the floor, completely defenseless. Her face heated, and tears pricked her eyes as another wave of nausea commanded she yield to its will. 

She was already sweating, and her hands were shaking. She spit into the bucket, unable to risk wiping the tears from her eyes. She waited. It wasn’t over.

She took a deep breath and braced herself for the next wave. She did not hear the approaching footsteps, did not scent the man either. Sorrell and Vesta snarled.

“My apologies, your majesty,” came a man’s voice. Manon’s eyes shot to him. He was tall, blond, not particularly handsome or particularly ugly, but he wore the drapings of a lord. “I must have gotten myself turned around somewhere.” She fisted her hands in the grass. 

Too close. The stranger was too close–

Another wave of nausea rolled through her, and Manon was forced to turn away, putting her back to the man. She shook harder. But Chaol, who was kneeling beside her, said, “Lord Devlon, the private sections of the castle are  _ restricted _ . You and the others were specifically told that to stay in the public areas. Get him out of here.” 

Sorrell and Vesta didn’t move. Both readied their feet beneath them, weapons out–blocking him from Manon. A threat, they were treating him like a threat.

Vesta snarled low and vicious, both witches took a calculated step toward the man.

“Oh, dear,” he said. Manon could hear the lie on his voice. “I must have gotten turned around. Is her majesty all right? Should I call a healer? Surely, you shouldn’t be training in your condition, your majesty?” He ignored her sentinels.

Manon decided that he was either very brave, or very stupid. She was inclined to think the latter. His status as a lord would not save him from death at the hands of her sentinels. There was no immunity for those who threatened a witch queen–diplomatic or otherwise.

“Back up,” Chaol snarled. He moved to stand, but Manon grabbed his hand as she buried her head in the bucket again. She wished it were Dorian’s hand. She gave a small sob as her stomach turned over and emptied.

Sorrell and Vesta snapped–Abraxos, too. 

The wyvern roared, fierce and wicked, just as an icy winter wind rushed across the field in their direction. And it was Abraxos’s roar that promised death that had Lord Devlon taking a few steps back. That and the bitter wind now blowing directly at him, so fierce it made it hard for the lord to breath.

“We may not have iron,  _ lordling _ ,” Sorrell said, taking a step forward. “But these,” she flicked out the retractable fangs that had replaced their iron teeth, “are just as effective at ripping out a man’s throat.”

Nesryn appeared a moment later, from the same door that Devlon had used a moment before. Her hair was tied back in a tight braid, but Manon thought it looked untouched by the wind that pounded against Lord Devlon. She was flanked by a surplus of guards.

“Funny to find you out here, Devlon,” she said, getting between him and the witches. “When I specifically told you the training fields were only accessible to view from the other side of the fence.” She pointed to where the other lords stood–over a hundred yards away and on the other side of a barrier.

Abraxos’s roar drowned out whatever excuse the lord gave to the Captain of the Guard, and then they were gone.

Something in Manon eased with warmth as the man disappeared. She was done vomiting– _ at least for now _ . She released Chaol’s hand and wiped her face on a cloth from her pocket. Abraxos nuzzled her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You mother hen.”

“I’m sorry,” Chaol said. They all stood. “ _ That _ was not part of the plan. I’ll be having a talk with Nesryn about how that happened.”

“Who was he?” Manon asked.

“Lord Devlon. His late wife was a distant  _ distant _ relative of the Havilliard line. He, and some of the other lords, have been trying to make your acquaintance.”

“She’s not some prize horse,” Vesta snarled. 

Sorrell grabbed her arm said, “Adarlan’s traditions state that the queen should spend at least a year in mourning. Why are they chomping at the bit now?”

Manon ran a hand over her stomach. She was in her third month and barely showing. But she could tell the difference, could see and feel the small bump that had started to form just beneath her bellybutton. They all looked at her. It was the first time she’d ever touched her stomach in public.

“They can’t possibly think to capitalize–” Vesta began.

“On a grieving widow facing her first pregnancy alone?” Chaol finished. “Yes, Vesta. They can. Have you not known the greed of men in your lifetime? Because I’ve heard stories about the things men do to your kind on the rare occasion they’re able to capture one of you.” Vesta snarled, but whether at Chaol or the truth he spoke, Manon didn’t know. 

“These men are courtiers,” Sorrell said. “They should observe the traditions, fall in line, take social cues from one another. That can’t happen again.” 

Abraxos nudged Manon, and she put a hand on top of his head–stroking the small valley that ran from just between his eye to the back of his head.

“She’s right,” Manon said. “I want guards at every entrance to the private areas of the castle,” she looked at Chaol. “Humans and witches. I want a united front.” She looked at her sentinels. “Dispatch a letter to Petrah. I want as many Bluebloods and Crochans with the gift of Sight as she can spare. Combat skills are a requirement. I want as many precautions in place so this doesn’t happen again.” 

Chaol’s eyebrows were slightly raised as looked at Manon. Sorrell and Vesta both smiled wickedly. She ignored them all.

“Let it be known that these new precautions are to protect the heir. Tell the most reliable gossip among them that these new regulations are a direct result of a lordling overstepped his bounds. Don’t mention his name, but make sure you drop enough hints to make it obvious. We’ll make an example out of Lord Devlon and get the other lords to start policing one another. Loyalty to the queen will be rewarded after the heir has arrived.”

Vesta reached into her pocket and flicked a cold piece to Chaol. He caught it with a smug smile.

“Welcome back,” was all Vesta said.

 

***

 

They finished sword training and moved to aerial maneuvers on the wyverns. Manon had not realized how much she’d missed Abraxos, how much he eased her pain. She loved him. He was the first being she ever recognized as her friend. And she was sad that she had somehow forgotten that. That she’d forgotten that he, too, was mourning. That he, too, needed someone to help him feel better.

They broke for lunch, and Manon spent the rest of the day with Abraxos. He flew her to his favorite spots in the gardens, and together they laid in the sun and sniffed the few flowers that still bloomed in the brisk fall air. 

Manon tried not to wonder if Dorian had ever walked the paths they took through the gardens. Tried not to think about the flowers he would have shown to her, or tucked into her hair. 

She wondered if he’d have made love to her here–hidden beneath the rose hedges. Or maybe somewhere in the rows and rows of violet flowers Abraxos seemed to like so much.

Her heart ached. But the ring on her finger warmed. She pulled at that thread between her and Dorian. That thread they’d felt running through and connecting everything and everyone. It was strong between them… or at least it had been. 

_ Witchling _

A gentle breeze swept the hair from her face, and Manon thought she felt a faint tug on that thread. A faint tug that had, at one point in time, let her know that Dorian was thinking about her.

 

***

 

Eight months after the war ended, Manon walked through the Wastes. She held on to Chaol Westfall’s elbow. It was late afternoon. She wore a short-sleeved, floor length black dress with a long and beautifully embroidered dark-blue jacket. Her moon-white hair was braided over her shoulder–courtesy of Asterin.

“He would have liked it here,” Manon said, looking out at the hilly, grassy land.

“I think you’re right,” Chaol said.

They walked down a dirt path that led into the first of many new villages. The one they walked toward was inhabited mostly by Crochans, but a few Blackbeaks and Bluebloods had moved in, too.

They’d been staying in a large estate house near Briarcliff. Ansel still held the region, but slowly they were transitioning power of some of the land to Manon. It would take time. There was still much that needed to be rebuilt or built. The Wastes would be a new kingdom, a new country, and that wouldn’t happen over night. But they all agreed that it would start with farmers. Start with the land.

The earth thrummed beneath her feet, calling to her.

“Do you think the fields will produce this season?” Chaol said. 

“I have hope.”

The war had ended in the fall of the previous year. It was now early spring. They’d done what they could to get people, witches, to return to the Wastes. But not enough came before the harsh winter had set in. When the ground had begun to thaw, some were able to grow flowers and herbs, but they were small and weak. What they needed were crops. Crops would signal that the land had been returned, that it was rightfully hers.

If the few farms that now scattered the region could grow something, then they could sell it. Money could start turning hands and trade deals could be brokered. When word of crops got out, more witches would come back. They would work the land, get jobs, and an economy would slowly develop.

Manon rubbed the side of her swollen belly. She’d been getting random cramps for weeks. The closer she’d gotten to the end of nine months, the more frequent they’d become. This one was nothing unusual.

But that didn’t stop Chaol Westfall from silently freaking out. His heart rate had picked up, and his scent was laced with anxiety.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’d tell me, right?” She gave him a level look. He snorted. “If you had asked me a year ago, if I thought I’d ever walk arm-in-arm with an Ironteeth witch, I’d have laughed in your face.”

“If anyone had told me, that I’d one day find myself here–with _ you _ of all people–I’d have cut out their tongue.” Chaol chuckled. They walked on. Manon very quietly said, “I miss him.”

Chaol laid his free hand atop hers in the crook of his elbow.

“I do, too.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I wake up and forget that he’s not here. I think I’ll see him at breakfast or with the dogs in the kennels–and then it hits me all at once… that he’s gone.”

A cool breeze caressed Manon’s face just as she closed her eyes to stop her tears. “I still hear him sometimes,” she said. “Late at night when the world is sleeping. I’ll wake up, thinking I heard him. I know that it’s not him, that it’s just a lingering dream, but… I’ll hear him say my name, tell me he loves me.” She opened her eyes. “I know that sounds crazy.” 

She knew how it sounded, but it was the truth. What she didn’t tell Chaol was that sometimes she heard him speak to her when she was fully awake. His voice like a faint whisper on the wind, or in the rustling of leaves.

She looked at Chaol, he’d gone somewhat ashen as he stared at the horizon. Manon rubbed the underside of her belly again. She could have sworn she felt the heartbeat of the earth beneath her feet.

“That does not sound so crazy,” he said. He shook his head. “That does not sound crazy at all.” She turned to him, studying the look on his face. She opened her mouth to ask if he’d heard Dorian too when–it felt as if she’d wet herself.

They both looked down at the pool of fluid soaking Manon’s soft satin shoes.

“Oh, gods,” she said.

“Your water just broke didn’t it?” Chaol’s hand tightened over hers. She looked up at him. “We’re going back to the house. Now.” He turned them around, and started walking.

The next cramp was more intense. No- _ not  _ a cramp. A contraction. She pushed against it with a hand as she tried to keep pace with Chaol.

“Slow down,” she said. He did. She rubbed at her belly.

“When did they start?” he asked.

“Weeks ago.”

“ _ I mean today. _ ”

“I had a few this morning,” she said. “That’s not unusual but–” 

But now that she was thinking about it, she’d had them regularly since lunch. That had been hours ago. Chaol did not miss the look that passed over her face.

“When?” he said.

“Noon. They were weak and far apart. I didn’t think…”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me if witches tend to have long labors like human women,” he said, stopping. He looked down the road in the direction of the house, then glanced behind them in the direction of the village, calculating. They were at least three miles from the house but less than a half mile from the village.

Manon gave him a look.

“Oh, gods,” he said. “Do.  _ Not. _ Tell me I’m not going to have to deliver this baby, Manon.”

She stared at him silently for a moment. Then said, “We’re not human, these things tend to go faster for us, but without the Valg blood… I don’t know. I don’t know how this works now.”

She stilled. 

She’d forgotten the curse. 

They’d talked about it, about the fact that no witch had given birth in the Wastes since the curse had been broken. When she’d first visited the Wastes, she’d felt it in the earth, like a call from the land–the curse had been broken, lifted. She’d decided then that she would deliver the witchling here to prove that it was all right. That it could be done. 

But now that it was happening, she wondered if she’d made the right decision. If something went wrong, if the queen’s witchling was stillborn, no witch would ever move back to the Wastes. Worse–every piece of Dorian Havilliard that still existed would die with it.

She bit back on her rising panic.

_ This was the right decision,  _ she told herself.  _ The earth here lives, it calls to you. The curse is broken. _

“I’m scared,” she said. “Chaol, I’m scared.” Something eased in her chest when she said the words aloud. Her grandmother would have beaten her senseless for the confession, but she’d needed to say it out loud. Needed to share that burden. Let it go.

“Look at me,” Chaol said, turning her shoulders. “The curse is broken. Plants and flowers are growing in these lands. The baby kicked all morning long for Asterin, right?” Manon nodded. “Do you think that if I thought this were a bad idea, I would have even entertained it? Would have let you leave Adarlan without a fight?”

“No.”

“Nothing is going to happen, to you or the baby,” he said, steering them in the direction of the village. “You’re both going to be  _ fine– _ ”

They stopped.

The place on the path where her water had first broken was covered in sapphire blue forget-me-nots. Every drip after that– _ each footstep _ –was covered, too.

“Holy rutting gods,” Chaol breathed.

“Do you feel that?” Manon asked.

“What?”

“That humming, that beat?” Beneath her feet, there was a thrum from the earth, an awakening. Chaol shook his head, still staring at the flowers. “It’s like the land here is waking up–calling to me.” A cool, calming breeze swirled around them.

_ Witchling _

Chaol blinked. “We need to move.” And so they did. 

And as they walked, beautiful bundles of sapphire blue forget-me-nots bloomed in the places where the blood and fluid that leaked and dripped from between Manon’s legs met the earth.

 

***

 

It took them a little over a quarter of an hour to reach the village. Once there, they’d been ushered straight to the Wise Women–what the Crochan’s running the village called themselves. They dispatched a messenger to ride back to the house and inform the royal entourage, and then they’d set Manon up in one of the second floor rooms of the eldest Wise Woman’s house. Her name was Greta, and she was this village’s matron.

Within five minute, they’d stripped Manon of her clothing and had her in a sleeveless, white nightgown that fell to her knees. She sat on the end of the bed. Chaol sat next to her, rubbing her lower back as another contraction worked its way through her.

For as uncomfortable as his scent told them all he was, Chaol was being a good sport about staying in the room with Manon. He’d left only when they’d changed her, and he hadn’t fled when he’d reentered to find Manon’s nightgown pushed up around her hips so that she could sit on a stack of towels instead of leaking blood and fluid all over the bed.

There would be time enough for that later.

Greta had rolled her eyes at Chaol’s obvious unease at Manon’s bare legs. But she had wrapped Manon’s lower half in a blanket anyway.

Her contraction hit a violent peak, and Manon dug her nails into the muscled flesh right above Chaol’s knee. The ring on her finger warmed.

“Deep breaths, majesty. Deep breaths,” Greta said. She was tall and beautiful. Her skin was a deep black that looked like matte porcelain in the fading sunlight. Her hair was long, and it fell down her back in beautifully kept locks that she tied together with a red sash. Her eyes were violently green.

The contraction passed and Manon was able to sit up straight again. She panted slightly from having held her breath. Greta wiped her forehead with a cool, damp cloth.

“The girls tell me the Bluebloods are already marking off the path you walked to get here, your majesty.” Manon laughed weakly.

“They always were a bunch of religious zealots.” Greta smiled, shaking her head, and sat back on her stool.

“Would one of you mind elaborating?” Chaol said. Manon’s ears perked up at the boom of wings.

“The Bluebloods are known amongst the witches as the mystical ones,” Greta said. “They have secret festivals and ceremonies to honor to goddess in the woods, or wherever. No one really knows what they do, but they’re very into their beliefs and rituals.”

“She’s being nice,” said Manon. “They’re fanatical.”

“Petrah seems normal,” Chaol said, unsure. Greta hummed a reply.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway one floor below.

“Petrah,” Manon said, “is of a different generation. Not as odd as her mother, but there were a few times back in Morath when I thought she’d completely lost her mind. She’d tried to help me– _ openly _ –which was either very stupid or very smart. She’d known who I was and what she’d needed to do to get us all here,” she motioned to the room, to the Wastes, as another contraction began to work it’s way through her. She rubbed the side of her belly.

“Deep breaths,” Greta said.

“And now the pretty bitch,” Asterin Blackbeak said, strutting through the doorway, “is no doubt heading up the preservation of that lovely flower trail you seem to have left in your wake.”

Manon tried to laugh but couldn’t as she grit her teeth.

“Had I known, cousin,” Asterin said, gently sitting on Manon’s other side and joining Chaol as he pushed against Manon’s lower back, “that a few flowers from you would have organized the Bluebloods so thoroughly, I would have recommended you get pregnant before the war.”

“Please, don’t make me laugh,” Manon said. “Oh gods, it hurt.”

They coached her through the next few contractions. But eventually, Manon was in so much pain that she couldn’t sit any longer. She needed to move. Asterin and Chaol helped her off the bed. 

Chaol grunted and went rigid, staring straight forward. Asterin glanced between him and the pile of wet, bloody towels Manon had been sitting on.

“For a veteran of war, a little bodily fluid sure makes you squeamish,” Asterin said.

“Leave him alone,” Manon said.

They walked the room until the next contraction hit. Manon braced her hands against one of the walls while Chaol pushed on her lower back.

“Harder,” she snarled. “Push harder.”

“Let me,” Asterin said. She switched places with Chaol and used that glorious immortal strength to push back against the contraction.

It still hurt like hell.

“Gods. Damned. Dorian. Havilliard,” Manon growled in pain. “If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him. I’d kill him for this. He did this to me.” She growled again. The contractions were getting longer and closer together. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to find him in the Darkness, and I’m gonna kill him.”

The pain began to ease.

Exhausted and panting, she leaned her forehead into the wall. She opened her eyes to see the blood and fluid running down her legs. There was a bit more blood than she’d expected.

“Is this normal?” she asked. She turned in place to face Greta. Chaol and Asterin held her elbows so she didn’t slip. 

“It’s called a bloody show,” Greta said. “It’s perfectly normal. Come,” she pat the bed, “let’s check you.” They helped Manon lay back on the bed. She groaned at the pressure her belly put on her organs. Chaol moved to the door–it was the only time when he left the room.

“You’re coming back right?” He turned to Manon and nodded.

“I’ll be right outside. I’m just going to check with in Nesryn while they”–he waved his hand uncomfortably–“ _ check _ you.”

“Whatever will you do when Nesryn gets pregnant?” Asterin said. Chaol gave her a murderous look and shut the door.

Greta and Asterin checked Manon’s dilation. Nine centimeters, so close. They helped her sit up.

“Can you open a window?” Manon said. “It’s hot.” Asterin moved across the room and opened the double doors that led out to a small balcony. It overlooked the back half of the village and the hills that might one day be fields of fertile farmland.

A cool breeze swept in and caressed Manon’s face. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting it embrace her.

_ Witchling _

She felt a faint glow of warmth on that thread that had once connected her to Dorian. She smiled, though she felt her heart grow heavy within her.

_ I miss you, _ she thought. And with that, a wave of sorrow crashed into her. 

She kept her eyes closed hoping to fight the tears, but a sob slipped out.

Greta and Asterin had both been looking out the balcony doors, they turned to their queen. Asterin took a seat next to Manon and wrapped her arms around her.

“He should be here,” Manon said.

“He is. I know he is.” There was a knock at the door, Greta opened it. Chaol looked as if he’d been about to say something when his eyes found Manon. He came in, and sat next to her–taking her hand in his.

“Thank you,” she said to them both. “For being here, for helping me with this, and–and for not freaking out.” She looked at Chaol.

“I made a promise. To him, and to you. I’ll die before I break it.”

Manon leaned forward and groaned as another contraction mounted an assault on her body.

“Just don’t pass out on us,” Asterin said, winking at Chaol over Manon’s back. He rolled his eyes. Manon cried out–this contraction was by far her most intense. She shut out the world, shut out everything except the steady sound of Greta’s words as she coached Manon through the contraction–her voice like a lifeline in a dark ocean.

A cooling breeze swept through the room, caressing Manon. If she hadn’t known any better, she might have thought that it felt like a kiss to her forehead. She ached to lean into it. 

As the contraction eased, she became aware of a faint humming. A song.

She blinked at Greta, who was wiping the sweat from her queen’s brow.

“What’s”–she panted–“that?” The song grew louder, and Manon turned to the open balcony doors. It was dark out, but she thought… 

Greta and Asterin exchanged a look. Chaol said, “I was going to tell you when I came back in.”

“Tell me what?”

“They’ve come to witness,” Greta said, “and to honor.” Chaol and Asterin helped Manon up while Greta moved to open the balcony doors wide enough for the three of them to fit through.

Manon’s breath caught in her throat as she stepped onto the balcony.

Tiny white lights blanketed the countryside like stars in the night sky. Each flicker was a candle held in the hands of a witch. They stretched for miles and miles and miles. So many that Manon could not tell where they ended and where the actual night sky began.

She choked on the lump in her throat.

The wind picked up and swirled around her, carrying their song.

“What are they singing?” Manon breathed.

Greta said, “It’s a very old song. So old that no one remembers the name of it, or the words. But a very long time ago, we witches used to sing it to one another. It’s the one thing that ties us all together… Well, until you, majesty.” Manon swallowed thickly. She could see some of their faces, in the dim light of the candles. There were Crochans, and Bluebloods, and Blackbeaks, and even a few Yellowlegs.

“Dori–” Chaol choked, cleared his throat. They all looked at him. Tears streamed down his face. “Dorian.” Manon grabbed his hand. “In Adarlan, it’s a lullaby. It’s hummed between mothers and children or between lovers.” He wiped at his tears. “Dorian used to sing it to his dogs when they’d give birth. And to the puppies after.”

“So they’re singing their queen a song for bitches in labor?” Asterin said, trying to lighten the mood. Chaol laughed. But Manon didn’t.

“Dorian loved those dogs,” she said. Chaol nodded.

“He did,” he said. “They were always there for him, which is more than I can say about his actual family… Do you know what else he loved?” he said, facing Manon. “You.”

She smiled at him and managed to keep her face from crumbling. 

They stood on the balcony for another moment before they went back inside.

Manon grabbed her stomach as another contraction built. This one was different. This one tore through her and every muscle in her body, screaming at her to–

“Push,” she cried. “Oh gods, I feel like I have to push.”

“No.” Both Asterin and Greta said at the same time.

“We need to be sure,” Greta said. She quickly rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands. Manon tried not to scream for the matron to hurry the fuck up.

Finally, Greta knelt on the floor in front of her. “Just hold on, let me check. Deep breaths. Just breathe.” Manon held onto Chaol and Asterin–who were making a show of demonstrating how Manon should be breathing–as Greta’s whole hand slipped inside her. “We’re at ten,” she said with a smile.

“Thank. The. Fucking. Gods,” Manon said. The contraction eased.

“What’s–what  _ happens _ now,” Chaol said. Asterin gave him a wicked smile, but the poor man was fixated on the blood coating Greta’s hand.

“Chaol,” Manon said. “Do not do this now.  _ Please _ , don’t freak out now. You have to be here in his place. I need you here in his place.”

“I’m here. I’m not going to freak out.”

Asterin looked like she was going to comment, but Manon gave her a look that promised death if she so much as thinked about opening her mouth.

“Now,” Greta said, motioning them to the bed. “We wait for the next contraction, then Manon pushes. We do that until we have a witchling.” Manon smiled, she liked the sound of that.

“How do you want to deliver?” Asterin said.

“I don’t know.” Manon eyed the bed. “I don’t want to lie down. It feels counter to this whole process.”

“We have a birthing chair,” Greta said. Manon didn’t like that idea either.

“Shouldn’t you lie in the bed?” Chaol said. They all looked at him. “Isn’t that what most women do?”

“Most  _ women _ , yes,” said Greta. “But we are not women. We’re much better about listening to our bodies. Lying down is not a natural position to give birth in. It works for some, but most of us don’t feel right in that position.”

Chaol kept his mouth shut and just nodded.

“I think, I think standing, kneeling, might be better for me,” Manon said. Greta and Asterin didn’t question her. Both moved to lay out blankets on the floor.

Three minutes later, the next contraction rolled through her. Asterin steadied Manon from the front, Chaol from the back. She squatted down to push. It wasn’t long before Manon demanded they bring her the birthing stool. Her thighs were burning with the effort it took to squat, and she was exhausted.

Choal sat in a chair directly behind her, and Asterin knelt on the floor in front of her. Greta hovered beside them all, guiding them.

“I feel the head,” Asterin said, glancing between Manon and Greta.

“Easy now,” the matron said. “Not too fast.” Manon reached between her legs. She sobbed with relief when she felt her witchling’s head.

_ Witchling _

“You’re almost done,” Chaol said, rubbing her shoulders. “We’re almost there.” He and Asterin smiled at one another like a bunch of idiots. The next contraction built, and Asterin moved her hands so Manon could feel the progress. Greta pulled back to watch and make sure the witchling didn’t come out to fast. She and Asterin’s hands hovered just beyond Manon’s.

Her whole body screamed at her to push, she did. Once, twice, thrice–

When she thought the pressure in her body couldn’t build any more it shifted, eased, and Manon felt the head of her witchling fall into her waiting hands.

“ _ Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, _ ” she said as the weight of her witchling hit her hands, when she felt the movement of tiny arms and legs– _ a tiny body _ –in her hands. She lifted her witchling from between her legs and immediately brought him to her chest. Asterin handed her a small blanket to cover her witchling, then ripped a few of the buttons open on Manon’s nightgown so that she could rest him against her skin.

Chaol held Manon’s shoulders as she leaned back.

“It’s a boy,” he said. “It’s a boy. It’s a–prince. We have a prince.” He looked to Asterin who had become utterly useless and she cried. Greta had to push her over to finish the delivery.

Manon did not hear any of it. Did not hear that she had a son, did not hear that Greta needed her to push again, did not hear the sobs and sniffles coming from both Chaol and Asterin. The whole world narrowed to the warmth of the witchling in her arms. Narrowed to the soft weight, and movement, and scent, and soft sounds and cries from the babe in her arms. That thread that had once connected Manon to Dorian spilled over with warmth and light and love.

Manon Havilliard cried and cried and cried. Tears of utter, unbridled joy. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced in her entire life.

 

***

 

An hour later, Manon was washed and clean and tucked safely into bed. Asterin lay on the bed beside her, Chaol sat in a chair on her other side. Greta had left to give them space. They all stared at the small witchling swaddled and sleeping in her arms.

“He has so much hair,” Chaol said. “Is that normal?” Manon shrugged. She had no idea.

“It’s unusual,” Asterin said, “but it happens.”

“He looks like his father,” Manon said. Indeed he did. The young prince had been born with a head full of black hair, blue eyes, and the exact same brow and chin as his father. She knew most witchlings were born with blue eyes, and that they eventually changed. But there had been a soft glow about his that told Manon they would not get darker. They would only get more and more blue until they were sapphire. He would have sapphire eyes like his father.

“What are you going to name him?” Asterin asked.

“Dorian,” Manon said. “Dorian Havilliard II.” Chaol turned away, pretending to pick something out of his eye.

“Should we tell them,” Asterin said, nodding toward the balcony. The gathered witches had only been told that the heir had been born and that mother and witchling were both doing fine. She would make an appearance with the babe on the balcony tomorrow before they left.

“I’d like the Thirteen to know first. Nesryn, too,” Manon said.

Once everyone she cared about had met the prince and learned his name, Manon let Asterin go out on the balcony and announce the witchlings name–she was rather theatric about it. The celebration from the crowd lasted all through the night. But Manon didn’t care about her lost sleep. She could not take her eyes off the tiny boy in her arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven months later, Manon sat on a golden throne atop a low dais in the main ballroom of the castle. Across from her, the newly refinished grand staircase rose up to meet a pair of decadent double doors. A small orchestra played from the corner of the room.

She watched as a few late guests descended the opulent staircase. Aelin and Rowan sat beside her.

Aelin’s court had come to Adarlan to meet and honor the new prince. Of course, Aelin had made a grand entrance. There were dancers, and trumpets, and sword fighters, and big floats displaying all the things Terrasen was known for. Manon had thought the whole thing ridiculous. But Chaol had assured her that it was customary for human courts to parade themselves upon arrival. He also reminded her that this was Aelin they were talking about. 

His exact words had been, “We’re one year after the war. This is Aelin on a budget. Wait until we’re ten years post war and her coffers are full.”

It was Samhain, and as customary, they’d thrown a large ball. Well, not Manon. She’d let Chaol and the Thirteen plan the whole thing. She could care less.

She fidgeted in her seat. She’d been forced to wear a traditional Adarlanian dress–meaning she’d been stuffed into a corset. It was the first time since Dorian’s death that she’d worn a color other than black. She’d prolonged the tradition of wearing mourning colors a few months longer than what was expected of her, she hated the idea that it would signal to the humans her availability to take suitors.

When she’d dressed with Aelin earlier in the evening, the Terrasen queen had offered to let one of the Fae males stay for a while.

“Not forever. Just long enough to drum up rumors of a courtship,” she’d said. She’d had a point, no human man in his right mind would want to tangle with one of them.

Manon smoothed the fabric of the red silk dress. The top hung delicately off her shoulders and the bottom flowed off her hips like a half-open rose. Asterin had wanted more crinoline to fluff up the gown, but Manon had been decidedly against it. It was bad enough that it was already so full. The last thing she wanted was to look like a bell.

Lord Devlon approached.

“Move along,” Chaol said from the foot of the dais. Manon did not miss the shift in his feet as he angled himself between her and the lordling.

“Surely the young queen would enjoy a dance,” he said. His eyes momentarily dropped to her breasts. Manon fought the urge to snarl. Her cleavage was already out of control from breastfeeding; the corset just made it worse.

“To which young queen do you refer?” Aelin purred from beside her. Manon schooled her features to hide her smile. Lord Devlon paled slightly as he looked from Aelin to Rowan. “Surely we’re both young and beautiful,” she said. “You should learn to be more specific  _ mister _ ? ”

“Lord Devlon,” he said, bowing. “And my apologies, majesties, for my lack of clarification. Nothing would please me more than to have the honor of escorting both of you through a dance this evening.” He looked at Rowan–a bit warily–and said, “With your permission of course, your majesty.” Aelin snorted.

“King Rowan is not my keeper. There is no reason to ask for his permission.” Manon bit down on the inside of her mouth. Chaol and Nesryn both stiffened.

Devlon suffered his way through an apology to which Aelin’s reply was, “Show us your skills on the dance floor with a few others, Lord Devlon. We’ll inform you of our decision later.” Once Devlon was gone, Aelin leaned into Manon.

“You’re welcome.” Manon rolled her eyes. “I know the veil between worlds is supposed to be thinner on Samhain, but who knew it affected the reasoning skills of courtiers. A bit insufferable that one. Don’t get me wrong, your cleavage this evening is fantastic. I’d be offended  _ for you _ if men weren’t lining up. But that one? Yuck.”

“Don’t remind me,” Manon said. Aelin raised an eyebrow. Manon took a deep breath.  _ Or tried to, the damn corset. _ “He’s been coming around since I arrived. Finds reasons to be in places he shouldn’t within the castle.”

“Is he why you’ve got so many Bluebloods on guard duty?” Manon tipped her head back and laughed.

“Yes, actually. Glimpsing the future comes in handy.”

“My offer still stands,” Aelin said. She nodded to the ballroom floor. “I think Fenrys could find a few reasons to stay. He seems to be getting on rather well with Asterin.” Indeed he was. Fenrys and Asterin had been on guard duty at the dais, but as soon as their shift was over, they’d glued themselves to one another. They’d been dancing for over an hour.

“Thank you,” Manon said. “I might take you up on it.” Aelin’s face softened, and she reached over to squeeze Manon’s hand.

“You don’t think about it?”

“No,” Manon said. “And now that I have Dorian...” The ring on her finger warmed, she smiled. “He’s my whole world. He’s everything.” She turned to Aelin. “It sounds stupid, but I miss him right now. I know he’s sleeping safely in my room with Ghislaine and Thea–but I miss him.”

“What about when he’s older, married? You still don’t think…” Manon ran a hand through her moon-white hair. It was swept over one of her shoulders, a delicate gold crown sat atop her head. She glanced at the ring on her finger.

“I’d never say what I’d never do, but Dorian was it for me. I felt it. It was as if we were meant to be, connected somehow.” She glanced at Rowan. She knew too many ears in the room could overhear them. 

“I still feel him,” she said quietly. “That thread that ran between us, sometimes it feels as if he’d just tugged on it, or where still at the other end.” She swallowed thickly and looked at Aelin. “I know that sounds crazy. That I shouldn’t still be able to feel him, or hear his voice.”

Aelin squeezed her hand when her voice cracked.

“That’s not crazy,” she said. “You’re not crazy. When Maeve separated Rowan and I, when I was in that iron coffin and no magic or light or sound or anything could touch me, I felt him. Our bond. So no,” she said, “you are not so crazy.” 

That thread between Manon and Dorian warmed.

“Sometimes I don’t think that’s true,” Manon said, looking out at the crowd.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because right now, I feel that thread, his warmth. And now I’m searching the room as if he’s going to magically appear before my eyes.” Aelin let out a small noise from deep in her throat.

“Does that happen often?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“When did it start?”

“A year ago today.” Rowan cocked his head to them. “I hadn’t gotten out of bed in weeks. But I woke up in the middle of the night because I thought I’d… “ she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Manon absentmindedly twirled the ring on her finger.

The party continued. Aelin and Rowan got up to dance, but Manon stayed put. She received a few more offers, some from strangers, others from friends such as Rowan and Connall, but she politely refused them all.

Her heart was a weight in her chest as she watched people dancing. Around and around they circled the elegant ballroom. Dresses whispered against the marble floor as ladies were led in tiny circles by men with sturdy feet and straight backs. Hands found shoulders and waists, but some found necks and cheeks.

_ Lovers, _ she realized,  _ some of them are lovers. _

She watched them and wondered what it would be like to join them. What it would be like not to sit apart from them, but to be one of them–happy and in love. She watched as a man stole a kiss from the woman he was dancing with. Manon wiped her palms down the front of her dress. The corset was rigid and hard and tight, and she hated it.

Hated it because of how it made her feel. As if she were too delicate, as if any activity that required breathing were too inappropriate, as if her only purpose was to be beautifully posed, sitting, waiting for a prince to save her.

The clock struck midnight. She sat alone on the dais with her guards.

_ Witchling _

On the third strike of midnight, the room was cast into darkness. The crowd gasped, someone screamed, the music stopped.

On the fifth strike of midnight, the double doors at the top of the grand staircase burst open on an icy wind, and a glowing figure made of solid moonlight appeared at the top of the stairs. The room went silent, still. That thread warmed. 

That icy wind swirled around and chilled her to the bone.

She gripped the arms of her throne. She hadn’t known she was holding her breath.

The only light in the night-dark room came from the figure at the top of the stairs. He was moonlight incarnate. A phantom. Wispy and transparent, yet detailed and whole. He stared at the queen.

And she stared right back.

Stared because those eyes–those were the eyes that haunted her. They were glowing and god-like and made of the most beautiful, beautiful shade of sapphire she’d ever beheld. A shade she’d thought she’d never behold again.

On the eighth strike of midnight, the phantom king descended the stairs.

On the ninth strike of midnight, every available guard, Fae, and witch flanked the dais. 

On the tenth strike of midnight, the candles lining the walls flared to life, casting the room in a soft, eerie glow. The crowd on the ballroom floor spread down the center, leaving a wide berth for the phantom king. His footsteps made no sound as he crossed the marble floor.

Closer and closer and closer and–

On the eleventh strike of midnight, time stopped. Manon stood.

“Hello, witchling,” he said.

She gasped. That voice. That beautiful, beautiful voice. The tone and depth of which had haunted her dreams, her waking hours–he spoke with the voice she’d thought she’d never hear again. It caressed her ears like the song of the wind, like a lover’s touch, like opera–notes so rare and so very, very precious to her.

Dorian Havilliard stood a few feet from the end of the dais, his hands tucked inside his pockets, the way he’d always held them. She could see every detail in his glowing white face. See the waves of his hair. It was longer than it had been the last time she’d seen him. He had a beard now. Though it was short, as if he’d stopped shaving only a few weeks ago. Beneath where it trailed down his neck, she could see the faint line of demarcation from where a collar had once been.

_ This can’t be. How can this be…  _

She took a step forward. She did not know that was trembling.

Silence. There was such silence in her mind, the room, her soul. Then–

“Are you a ghost?” He smiled in that charming way he always had.

“If I were a ghost,” he said, “wouldn’t I be in stuck wearing the clothes I died in?” She spared a glance at his outfit. He wore a fine tunic and pants, and a short cape was held between two wyvern shaped pins on each of his shoulders. Damaris hung from his waist.

“Are you real?” she said. Her breath was low and shallow–but whether from the corset or the shock she didn’t know.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’m real.” His face saddened then. “But I’m not sure for how much longer.”

“You died.” Her voice shook. “You died. We– _ I _ buried you.”

“I know you did,” he said calmly. He took a step forward.

Chaol was between them immediately, sword raised. Dorian smiled at his friend.

“Hello, Chaol.”

“Who are you? What to do you want?”

“I missed you, too,” Dorian purred. He rocked back on his heels. “I came to ask my wife to dance. It seemed a shame that she should look so beautiful in that dress, and not be taken for a turn about the ballroom floor.” He paused for a moment and looked over her. His face saddened with a small smile. “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”

Manon moved forward, putting her hand on Chaol’s shoulder. He didn’t move, so she stepped around him.

“How?” she breathed.

“I don’t know. I made my peace, turned the key. There was a blast of power, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up. Fully healed, magic replenished. The gods were gone of course.”

He glanced at her ring. 

“I felt you,” he said. “I felt your sorrow. As if it passed through the space between us, that cord that ties us together. There was nothing, when I woke up. Just darkness and those damn distant stars to which I can never seem to get any closer… I followed the thread until I found you. I’ve been with you ever since, witchling.” 

He looked up at her from behind thick lashes, and added, “Just as I promised.”

Manon gave a strangled cry. “You were alive, this whole time?” She couldn’t breath. Couldn’t get air in deep enough, fast enough. “You were alive”–she panted–“and I left you there”–another pant–“I left you in that place.” It was not a question.

Asterin came over and put a hand on her back. Manon pulled away. 

She didn’t want anyone to comfort her. The touch her. She was confused. Destroyed. She didn’t understand how she could have done that to him. She should have known, should have stayed. She rubbed her palms down the front of her corset. 

Over and over and over again.

“Witchling,” Dorian said. “It’s not your fault. You had to leave.”

“Where are you?” she said. And at those words tears spilled from her eyes. “I’ll come get you. Just tell me where you are.” She stepped off the foot of the dais and moved to stand in front of him. He was as beautiful as she remembered.

“I’m not sure it works like that, love.” He smiled, but he could not hide his sadness.

“Please, tell me what to do? I’ll do it. I’ll break the world to find you. Just tell me.”

“Witchling,” he cooed. He shook his head.

A moment passed.

“Can I touch you?” She raised her hand hesitantly, then pulled back. Silent tears dripped off her chin. 

“Gods, I hope so.” He held out his hands.

She reached forward. Carefully, she stroked the tip of a finger down one of his glowing palms. He was not solid, but he had substance. Like a thick, dense cloud. Like frosting maybe, of a finely whipped cream.

“I felt that,” he said. The smile on his face broke her heart. Tears fell from his eyes. “I felt that.”

“How is this possible?” she breathed, reaching out again to place her palm atop his.

“A lot of raw magic,” he said. “Last Samhain, I realized the thinning of the veil made it easier to force my magic through to this world. There’s nothing else for me to do in this place but practice. I don’t get hungry, or sleep. My hair still grows.” He ran a hand over his beard. “I’ve gotten pretty good, actually. I’ve mastered working with textiles,” he motioned to his tunic, “but I haven’t quite figured out how to sharpen Damaris so I can shave. I think I did a pretty decent job though,” he said, winking at her.

She didn’t have the heart to joke, or to tell him that his facial hair was wildly uneven.

“I miss you,” she breathed.

“I know. I miss you, too.”

“It hurts. Every day without you–it’s awful.” She noticed his tears and reached out to see if she could wipe them. He closed his eyes and leaned into her so that he might feel his cheek cradled in her palm. “Do you want to meet our son?”

She felt his pain through their bond. He opened his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“I watch you with him,” he said. “It’s blurry and not very detailed, but I’ve seen him, and you. I don’t–” He looked away.

Torture this was torture. She could see him and talk to him, but not fully touch him, or be with him. She understood his hesitation. Why he might not want to know that pain, to have to live with it. They did not know how much time they might have together this night.

“Next time,” she said. Her lip trembled knowing there probably would not be a next time. Maybe not until next year.

“Dance with me,” he said. He held out his hand, and she did not hesitate to place hers in it.

The crowd moved away from them, in both awe and fear. They moved to the center of the ballroom floor. She took his lead, and they both held their arms around one another as best they could. He was careful not to let his phantom body pass through her real one, but she felt the slight tug and push of his hands on her, leading her through the dance.

There was no music as he took her though a slow waltz. But then, after what sounded like a brief scuffle–a piano began to play. Manon did not take her eyes off Dorian, but in the corner of her eye, she saw Aelin seated at the bench. 

The keys she played were high and haunting and sad. But Manon thought she felt the delicate rhythm of hope woven between the notes. It fluttered around them like butterflies in spring as they circled the ballroom floor–leaving trails of shimmering moonlight in their wake. 

A cello joined the song and then a soft violin. But the music didn’t matter, not really.

_ Not as long as I have this moment,  _ Manon thought.  _ However short it might be. _

They danced, lost to the moment. Her red dress flowed and poured and shimmer around them like the warmth of a lover’s whisper in winter. They could not take their eyes off one another.

“We’ve never danced before,” Dorian said.

“I’ve never danced.” His smile reached his eyes then.

“How long do we have?” she said.

“I do not know. But I’d like to keep you here, in my arms for as long as we have.”

“I’d like that,” she said. He smiled and pressed his lips against her cheek as best he could–a ghost of a touch. And she realized she’d felt the sensation before on those night’s she’d wake up after having dreamt of him.

“Me, too.”

They danced for what could have been hours or minutes. Neither knew, neither cared. But at the end of one of the songs, Fenrys met them out on the ballroom floor. They stopped. 

“If you’re Dorian Havilliard,” Fenrys said, “tell me something only he and I would know.”

“You’ve never forgiven Rowan for not realizing Erawan’s Bloodhound wasn’t you.”

“Too easy,” Fenrys said. Manon could see his mind working, calculating. A small movement over his shoulder caught Manon’s attention. She looked to see Connall coming to stand at the edge of the crowd. Connall’s magic was gone. He’d drained it all keeping the doorway open. The look he gave Manon said as much.

“You once asked me to heal a blemish on your face,” Dorian said. “It was right there.” He pointed to Fenrys’s forehead. Somewhere behind them all, Rowan began choking.

Fenrys glanced at Manon.

“You said you’re using your magic to hold this form here?” Dorian nodded. “That you found her from a bond, a thread?” 

“Yes.” Fenrys narrowed his eyes at Dorian, studying the moonlight he seemed to be made of.

“Fenrys,” Rowan warned. They all looked at the king.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“And if he is not what he says he is?” Rowan said. Manon understood.

“It’s him,” she breathed. “I swear it.” Fenrys nodded his head at her.

“Just in case,” he said. But Manon was already moving away. Back to where Chaol and Asterin waited. She hated to leave the king’s side. But… 

“This might not work.”

“I understand,” Dorian said. He swallowed thickly.

“Focus on me. Find the thread that runs between us.” Dorian nodded. Fenrys held out his hand, and the two men clasped forearms as best they could.

“Focus on me,” he said again. Dorian nodded. “On the count of three. One, two,  _ three– _ ”

Fenrys took a step forward and disappeared. Dorian stared at where Fenrys had just been touching him. Then–

Fenrys reappeared behind Dorian. The king’s arm was wrenched backward, and right before Manon’s eyes, he was pulled from behind the veil. He passed through an invisible barrier–like a sheet of flowing water–and when he appeared on the other side, he was solid, and whole, and flesh and bone, and in full, living, breathing color.

Dorian stared at his solid hand, but Fenrys wasted no time. Pulling a knife from beneath his tunic, he gripped the king’s arm and sliced open his hand. Fenrys brought the wound to his nose and sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed. Rowan moved in, too, no doubt to scent the king. 

Thick red blood dripped to the floor.

And the smell hit Manon like a blow to the face. 

Like a blizzard, sudden and thick, and so mighty that it whitewashed the entire world, the entire universe. Like sunlight, utterly blinding and terrifyingly magnificent. Like hope, it engulfed her in a hold so delicate and honest and beautifully breakable she thought she might be starving for it.

The scent of his blood triggered an onslaught of memories from the worst day of her life. The last time she’d smelt it, she’d been covered in it. Dripping in it. She’d been panicked and crying and broken. She felt her panic and sorrow rise just as they had that day.

Manon pulled on that bond between them. Dorian’s head shot to her.

“I felt that.” He tugged back on their bond. And she, too, could feel it. Strong and whole and real and– _ he was alive _ . Dorian Havilliard was alive, and he was standing in front of her.

She moved, ran. Fenrys released his hold on Dorian, and the king moved to her. Like lightning across a dark sky, the king found his queen–the princeling his witchling.

They buried one another in their arms, and she thought the feel of him might be the most glorious pleasure she’d ever felt in all her long life.

He kissed her. She kissed him. He spun her around in his arms, up in the air–

“Witchling, witchling, witchling,” he said.

“You’re real, you’re here, you’re real,” was all she could say. They cried and shook and could not stop running their hands over one another. Could not stop touching, could not stop needing to know that they were real and whole and in one anothers arms.

“I’m real,” he said. “I’m real. I’m right here, I never left you, I’m right here,  _ you’re _ right here.”

“You’re mine,” she sobbed into his neck, and she nuzzled and kissed and drank in the glorious scent and feel of him.

“I’m yours, witchling. I’m yours,” he said. “You’re mine. No one else is mine. Just you, witchling, just you.”

No one noticed the old crone standing at the top of the stairs. No one noticed as she waved her hand, and the twelfth and final stroke of midnight rang through the kingdom. No one noticed when as she slipped through the open doors and vanished into the moonlight. 

But if anyone had noticed her, they might have seen that she was not an old crone at all, but a beautiful maiden with moon-white hair and delicately pointed ears. 

_ Many blessings, Dorian Havilliard, and a long life to you. _


	4. Epilogue

Eventually, they broke apart. Eventually, Dorian greeted his friends, and eventually, the king and queen had their first moments alone.

They walked the corridor to her room– _ their _ room. Thea had come a few minutes before–and after nearly shitting herself at the sight of Dorian Havilliard–she told the queen that the witchling was awake, and in need of nursing. The queen was happy for the excuse to leave their friends, happy to have the king alone.

Before they entered the room, Dorian pulled her aside. The look on her face told him that she felt the same unease as he. He ran a thumb down her cheek.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been together. A lot has changed,” he said. “I don’t expect to fall back into bed with you, or for you to trust me to be alone with our son.” A tear slipped from her face. “I hate it when you cry,” he whispered, kissing her gently.

“Thank you,” she said. “I want you. I  _ ache _ for you, but–I,  _ we _ , have routines and schedules and… I don’t expect you to sleep in a different room–I  _ need _ you with me.” She picked at a piece of his tunic. “But I also need time. To adjust. To get to know you again. Dorian, our witchling, he,” she could not stop the smile that bloomed over her face, “he is my whole world. Everything. He kept me alive, and I…” 

Dorian cupped her face and said, “You’ve never had to share him. I understand. And I do not want you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. Yes, he’s my son, but I don’t just get to be his father. I know I have to earn it. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him.” He kissed her forehead. “We’ll take it slow. As slow as we all need. I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t need time to adjust, too.” Manon leaned forward and claimed his mouth.

It was not the raw, passionate kisses they’d shared in makeshift beds and in war tents. It was slow and deep and learning. They would have to learn how they fit with each other again, how to  _ be _ with each other again. They had never lived together in a world that was not ravaged by war. They’d never been parents together.

Little Dorian’s cry could be heard from within their room. Manon’s heart skipped a beat as she pulled away from her king. She turned the door handle and said, “Would you like to meet our witchling?”

The king’s smile was all the answer she needed.

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Manon headed through the castle corridors toward the royal chambers. It was just past two in the afternoon. Little Dorian would be up from his nap and ready to be fed. She smiled thinking of her witchling. The joy on the king’s face when he’d seen their son for the first time. The tears he’d cried.

When Dorian had first met his son, he hadn’t yet been able to hold him. The babe had been crying to be fed and every instinct in Manon’s body had told her that the king’s needs could wait. Their witchling came first.

Thea had helped her out of her corset that night and had then left. Manon had sat right on the bed, pulled her underdress down and had started feeding little Dorian right in front of his father. She and Dorian knew they still had adjustments to make, they needed to learn to live with one another again. But the king had not gaped, or smiled, or looked uncomfortable by the display. He’d only stared in awe.

“I feel utterly useless,” he’d said, wiping his eyes. “What can I do, how do I help?” Manon had smiled at him and had whispered for him to sit with her on the bed. He had. She’d whispered because for some reason, their witchling got upset when his mother talked while she was feeding him. He would let go and start crying and would not latch back on until she’d quieted.

Apparently, the little prince liked to eat in peace.

When she’d finished feeding and burping him that night, Dorian had held his son for the first time. Manon had shown him how to rock and shush the babe to get him to fall asleep, and she’d told him that she’d started calling their witchling  _ rabbit. _

“Rabbit?” Dorian had said.

“Yes, rabbit,” she’d replied. “Did you see how he eats? He looks just like a little rabbit.” The king had laughed then because it was true. And so Dorian Havilliard had started calling his son rabbit, too.

Manon turned a corner and headed up a flight of stairs. She would have taken them two at a time, but her breasts were aching and any extra movement was incredibly uncomfortable. She needed to feed her son in order to relieve some of the pressure in her chest.

She made her way down the next hallway. She didn’t know where Dorian was at that moment. He’d been busy catching up on all that he’d missed. She was happy for him. Happy because now she did not have to devote so much focus to Adarlan, and because Dorian was finding where he belonged as king.

She was thinking about how she and Dorian were still figuring out how  _ they _ fit together–and how they had not yet had sex–when she walked into their room to find it empty. Completely and utterly empty.

She raced to the bassinet. Little Dorian was not there. She went to her bed, scanning the couches and chairs on her way. Nothing. She ran to the adjoining room that had been made into his nursery. Empty.

Panic flooded her mind. 

_ Where are you, where are you, where are you? _

He was always there, always right there in her room. For the last seven months, when she’d come back to her room at two o’clock he was there.

A hot, icky sweat began to break out over her skin. She scented the room. It was useless. Little Dorian was a witchling, he wouldn’t begin to leave a scent trail until he was at least a year old.

_ Right here, right here. He’s always right here. _

“Rabbit?” she said, turning in circles. “RABBIT?” she screamed. She didn’t have iron nails anymore, but the bone fangs she’d been left with after the Valg had been cleansed from Erilea descended into her mouth.

If anyone had hurt her witchling, they would die. Slowly and painfully and–

“We’re in here,” Dorian said from the adjoining bathroom.

Manon practically clawed the bedroom apart as she ran. She wrenched open the bathroom door with a snarl that promised death. Across the room, Dorian stood at the changing table, picking up her son–who took one look at his mother and started crying. 

Her heart ached. She ran to him. He reached for her, and she pulled him from Dorian’s arms without so much as looking at him. She clutched her witchling, cradling him to her chest. She did not realize she had turned her back on Dorian.

“Shh, rabbit,” she said, tears of relief falling from her eyes. “It’s all right, mama’s here. Shh.” She pressed her cheek to the witchling’s head. “Shh, mama’s here, rabbit. Mama’s here.” The babe quieted.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. Manon whirled around, her face stained with tears, but–she softened when she saw the king’s face. He looked scared, sorry, unsure. “He needed a change–I figured I’d change him so you didn’t have to. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She swallowed thickly and said, “It’s all right.” 

But it was not all right. She had overreacted, panicked. She had survived losing Dorian, and somehow their son had become her whole world, had kept her from falling apart.

“Please, don’t cry,” Dorian said, stepping toward her. “I didn’t–”

She lost it then. Her relief at finding her son, her embarrassment at overreacting, her guilt for hurting Dorian’s feelings– _ damn these hormones. _ She moved to Dorian, and leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her. Still apologizing.

“Please, don’t apologize,” she sobbed. “I forgot. I shouldn’t have growled at you.” She leaned her head back to look at him. He kissed her forehead.

“I shouldn’t have changed him. I should have waited for you.”

“No,” she sobbed, trying and failing to get a hold on herself. “You’re his father. I’m– _ I’m just a mess _ .” She buried her face in the king.

“Don’t say that, witchling. Why would you say that.” She stopped choking on her tears long enough to look back up at him.

“Look at me. I’m a blubbering idiot who overreacted because, because”– _ damn hormones _ –“I thought I’d lost him,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “I thought I’d lost him, same as I lost you–I can’t… I thought I’d lost him.” Dorian rubbed her arms.

“You didn’t lose me, witchling. I’m right here. Rabbit and I are right here.”

“I know that,” she sobbed. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t–I  _ panicked _ .” Manon Blackbeak had never panicked. But Manon Crochan, Manon Havilliard… 

She pulled back from Dorian, and it occurred to her that maybe she needed to talk to someone. Maybe her biggest adjustment was not that she’d have to learn to live with Dorian again, but the fact that she had been more affected by his death than she’d previously thought.

Little Dorian began to fuss in her arms.

And all at once, Manon stopped crying. 

“I need to feed him,” she said.

“Why is your tunic wet?” Dorian asked. Manon looked down. Little Dorian was clutched over one of her breasts, but the other one–a large wet circle had formed in the center. She looked up at Dorian, not quite sure how to explain.

“Sometimes,” she began, “when you have a baby, if you hear that baby– _ or any baby _ –crying, you kind of...leak. Sometimes it happens when your breasts get too full. Like when you’ve gone too long without feeding.” She braced herself for the reaction Chaol Westfall had had when she’d had to explain it to him.

“Like right now?” Dorian said. Manon nodded. “Do they not make tiny pads of cloth or something for females to wear in their shirts for moments like these?” Manon smiled.

“How are you and Chaol friends?”

“What do you mean?” He followed her into the bedroom. She climbed onto their bed, setting little Dorian down a moment, while she removed her tunic and untied the front of her nursing shirt. The king helped stuff a few pillows under her arms and across her lap for their witchling to lay on while he fed.

Manon settled in and picked up her little rabbit, guiding his head to her exposed breast.

“I mean,” she whispered, careful not to disturb him, “you’re not freaked out that my nipples can just leak?” He snorted and snuggled in next to her on the bed. They both watched their witchling eat.

“You had a baby,” he said. “I’d be worried if they didn’t. We’d have to get a wet nurse.”

Manon frowned and whispered, “Wet nurses are for humans.” Dorian smiled and kissed her cheek.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you.” They sat there awhile longer, watching their son.

When Manon switched breasts, she said, “I’m glad you’re here.” Dorian smiled.

“Me, too.”

“Why  _ are _ you here?” Dorian looked over at her.

“I missed him–you.” He shrugged. “I think I need some time. I told Chaol already.” He looked back at his son. Truly, the babe looked like a rabbit when he ate. “I’ve already missed so much. I don’t want to miss more. I told him I’d take meetings two days a week, and do my best to get caught up during the few hours every day when our son is asleep. I told him I need this. I need to be here with you and rabbit.” Manon smiled.

“We’d like that.”

“I found some of his clothes from when he was first born.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They were so small, so tiny. And I thought about how I’ll never get that back, those moments. All of it. The pregnancy, the delivery. Those should have been mine. Those moments were mine.”

“But you were there,” Manon said. “I felt you.” But she knew it wasn’t the same. They had talked about how he’d been able to experience life on this side of the veil. It had been blurry and muted and dulled. It wasn’t the same. He smiled.

“I was in a council meeting earlier listening to Lord Devlon go on and on about some export tax proposal, and it just hit me–that I should be with you and rabbit. That an increase in taxes on Adarlan’s exports was the stupidest idea I’d ever heard,  _ especially _ after a war. I’d never approve it.”

“What did you do?”

“I just got up and left,” he half laughed. “I told Chaol to finish the meeting and bring me the notes from each member after. That I’d go from there. When he followed me into the hallway, I just told him I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there for hours and hours. I just got back, got home. I’m not going to ignore my people, but I’m not going to sacrifice this time with you and Dorian.”

Little Dorian stopped eating, and Manon pulled him off her breast. He fussed for a moment at the loss of contact then just looked a little out of it.

“Do you want to burp him?” Manon said.

“Absolutely.” Dorian threw a blanket over his shoulder and took his witchling from his mother. “Why does he make that face after he eats?” Dorian said, getting up to walk about while he burped rabbit. Manon closed her shirt and laid back on the bed. 

“They call it milk drunk. It happens after they eat.” She smiled and closed her eyes. She listened to Dorian coo their son as he walked back and forth around the room, patting the babe’s back.

“He goes down for a nap again at four, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “We usually play on the floor. He needs more tummy time and practice rolling over.” She yawned.

“You should sleep,” Dorian said. Manon opened her eyes. “You always get tired after you feed him.”

“It usually doesn’t last that long. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” Their son burped loudly, and they both chuckled. She yawned again.

“Sleep,” Dorian said. “We’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.” Manon smiled.

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t be. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It was my mistake.”

“No,” she said, looking away. “I think, I think that maybe I should talk to someone. That’s not the first time that’s happened.” Dorian stopped walking around.

“What do you mean?” Manon sat up, pulling a blanket over her legs.

“I panic sometimes. Well, I  _ think _ myself into a panic. At first, I thought it was because of the pregnancy. The hormones. But after today–I know that my hormones won’t be back to normal until I’m done breastfeeding, I know that. But when I panic, it’s more than that.” She ran her palms over the tops of her thighs. “The things that run through my mind, they’re not rational. The fear, the panic. It’s similar to the day I lost you. It  _ feels _ like the day I lost you.”

Dorian sat on the bed next to her.

“I think we should both talk to someone,” he said. Manon looked straight at him. “When I was in the veil, I didn’t get tired, or need to sleep. But since I’ve been back… ”

“You had a nightmare,” she said. He nodded.

“But it’s not just that,” he said. “My family, they weren’t–I don’t want to turn into my father.” Something in his chest eased at the words. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I’ve treated our son the way my father treated me.” He held little Dorian out in front of him. “I didn’t have any male role models to teach me how a father should act. Brullo hardly counts.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Manon said. “I didn’t think that I might not know how  _ not  _ to become my grandmother.” She looked at her son. He was beautiful and sweet and so incredibly innocent. The thought that she might one day guilt him into behaving the way she wanted, or threaten him with a beating–she shut her eyes against the memories. 

Dorian squeezed her leg. She looked at him. 

She’d told him about the abuse. About how she’d been conditioned to stay silent and let it happen because she’d learned that it was the best way she could protect herself. They’d talked about it soon after that day on the boat when Aelin had lost her temper and had beaten Manon for not flying Elide to Terrasen.

“We’ll find someone to help us,” he said calmly. “We won’t become like them. We’ll get help, learn how to break the cycle.” She nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. She frustratedly wiped at her face as tear slipped down it. “Damn hormones.” Dorian smiled and leaned in to kiss her on the mouth. Her breath caught at the same time her body went tight and loose in all the right places. When Dorian pulled back, she could tell he felt the same. 

They hadn’t been together that way yet. The first few nights he’d been back, they’d stayed up talking, or just staring at one another.

Rabbit began to fuss. The king stood.

“You should sleep,” he said. “We’ll be here when you wake up.” Manon laid back on the bed. She was pretty sure she was too riled up to be able to sleep. But as soon as she closer her eyes, sleep claimed her.

 

***

 

After they put the prince to sleep in his bassinet, Manon drew herself a nice hot bath. She’d filled it with some oils and soaps to the point that the water turned an opaque white. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the tubs rounded edge. Dorian stood at the sink, trimming the beard he’d decided to keep.

Manon looked over at him. He’d already washed, so his hair was slightly damp. He wore nothing but a pair of men’s night trousers. He hadn’t lost an ounce of muscle since the last time she’d seen him shirtless before the war’s end. The tattoo Rowan had inked ran up the side of his back and disappeared over his shoulder.

He noticed her looking at him in the mirror. She quickly looked away.

“Admiring the view, witchling,” he said. She gave a low chuckle and closed her eyes.  She heard him set down whatever instruments he’d been using to trim his beard and turn around. “Have you _ been _ with anyone since–”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had.” She sat up and turned to him. The water sloshed around her.

“No.” Relief flashed across his face before he covered it with a charming smile. She cocked her head. “Have you?”

“There were a few offers,” he purred, pushing off the counter and lazily prowling to her. “But disembodied women aren’t really my thing.” She huffed a laugh. She knew he was joking, that he’d been completely alone in the veil.

“May I?” he said, motioning to the hair she’d clipped atop her head.

“You may.” He sat in a stool by the tub and let her hair down. She tipped her head back and he used his magic to pour hot water over her head. He gathered some soap and began lathering it in her hair. She moaned.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you for moving on,” he said, massaging her scalp. She almost didn’t hear him.

“I’m not sure I could,” she said. Dorian was silent as he rinsed her hair with fresh, hot water. Then he stood, walking around the tub. Manon pulled her clean hair over her shoulder and began gently ringing it out. She could feel his eyes on her, but could not bring herself to look at him.

With a snap of his fingers, Dorian replaced the bath with fresh, clear, steaming hot water. Manon pulled her knees to her chest.

Dorian braced his arms on either side of the tub and climbed in–still wearing his trousers.

“What are  _ y– _ ” 

His lips found hers. The hot water sloshed and spilled all over the floor, but neither cared as Manon circled her arms around his neck and let him tilt her head to deepen the kiss. 

“ _ I could never _ ,” was all he said as his hands found her knees and spread her legs apart, allowing him closer access to her. He pulled her feet up and behind his waist and then hauled her up to sit in his lap. 

Water dripped from her hair and shoulders as they came up out of the water. She pulled him to her, pressing her bare chest to his. The feel of his large, calloused hands circling her waist, kneading her hips, the look on his face while he did it–nearly undid her.

_ This, _ she thought.  _ This man is why I could never move on. _

Dorian was everything she’d ever wanted and hadn’t known she’d needed. He allowed her to relax, to yield that control she’d so desperately buried herself in for protection. He stripped her bare. Down to the female, the woman, whatever– _ whoever _ –she was behind the mask of the White Demon, the Blackbeak Heir.

She lost her fingers in his hair as he lost his in the fullness of her backside. She moaned and forgot to kiss him as he pushed her against the hardness of him. It has been so long, too, long since she’d felt like this. She couldn’t wait for him. She ached for him.

“Marry me,” he breathed into her mouth. “Marry me for real. In front of our friends, the kingdom,  _ fuck _ , the world.”

“Yes,” she gasped as one of his fingers slipped around her backside to glide along the sensitive folds of her. “Yes.”

It was all the answer he needed. Dorian pulled her to him and stood in the tub. Water splashed and dripped all around them as he stepped out, carrying his queen. Holding herself to him with arms and legs, she couldn’t help but to move her hips. She needed him– _ ached _ –for him.

He was well aware. His need quite the same. 

With a thought, his magic vanished the water from their bodies and the room. With another thought every towel and blanked in the bathroom cabinets were piled in layers on the floor before him. The fireplace roared to life and he knelt down, laying his queen out before him.

She did not let him go from between her legs. She held him to her as he laid them down atop the linens. She pulled his trousers open to free the length of him. She bit his lip in anticipation when at last her hand found the firm, smooth, hardened flesh of him. She whimpered.

And when at last he laid them down so that Manon’s head was against the blankets, she guided him into her–pushing him forward with her heels.

The feel, the stretch, the pressure of him as he moved into her–she moaned. They both did. Dorian cursed when he was fully sheathed inside her. She held him there with her heels. She needed to feel him, remember him,  _ adjust _ –she flinched.

“Are you all right?” he said. She nodded, closing her eyes.

“Give me”–she panted–”a second.” Dorian would give her forever.

Her nails were dug into the his back–and not in the way he usually liked. He could see that her shoulders were pulled together and forward, that her neck was tight. It hasn’t just been over a year since she’d last let someone inside her, she’d had a baby.

He decided on kissing the corner of her mouth. She turned her head and opened for him. He kissed her gently and thoroughly, trying to bring her back to that lust addled state where pleasure and pain were the same. He did not dare move inside her.

With a real hand and a magic one, he made long sweeping stroked under her breasts. They were larger than he’d ever seen them. The sight of them–soft and heavy and gloriously jiggly with whatever the pregnancy and breastfeeding had done to them–drove him nearly mad. He wanted to bury his hands in them, his face, other parts of him, but he did not. He stroked them gently.

He felt her begin to relax under him. She began to kiss him back more eagerly.

“How does this feel?” he asked, circling her nipple with a thumb. It was peaked and hard and he wanted to put it in his mouth, wrap his lips around it, taste it.

“I’ve missed that,” she said. “But they’re sensitive.” And he knew she didn’t mean in a good way. So he would not bury himself in her breasts–at least not tonight. She deepened their kisses and he slipped a hand between her legs.

“What about this?” he asked, ghosting his thumb over that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Have you missed this?” She whimpered what might have been a yes, and he felt her nails come out of his back, her hips moved slightly.

_ That’s it, _ he thought.  _ Feel good for me. _

He pressed his thumb over that bundle of nerves and she thrust her hips.

“Please,” she said. He moved, backing out slowly, then pushing back in. Then backing out slowly, then pushing back in. Her hand came between her legs and pushed his away. He smiled, she wanted to enjoy the feel of them together.

For the first time in over a year, Dorian Havilliard moved inside his queen. Made love to her. Slowly and gently and thoroughly. He gathered her in his arms and reveled in the feel of her body around him. It took him, swallowed him, begged him. Too long, it had been too long since they’d been like this. It was better than anything he could have ever dreamed up. Anything he could ever want.

He groaned around her as his pleasure mounted. A year had indeed been too much time. He would not last much longer.

“I’m close,” he gasped. She slipped her hand between her legs and began stroking that bundle of nerves.

“Wait for me,” she said. He glanced between them to see her fingers–

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he groaned, pulling his eyes away from the sight of her touching herself. “I’ll try.” But he would not have to.

Almost as soon as Manon began touching herself, her release barreled toward her. She gasped and moaned and circled an arm around his neck, forcing deep and messy kisses. Dorian felt her inner muscles clench and pulse and throb around him–milking him.

“Deeper,” she moaned, “oh gods, Dorian, deeper.” 

On his next stroke, he gently pressed to hilt, and she came apart beneath him. The sight and sound and feel of her release called to his. 

They came together, and that bond between them shined like a golden chain of starlight, anchoring them together.

“Look at me,” he said, as he picked up the pace ever so slightly and pushed again and again to hilt–working them through their shared pleasure.

Manon looked at him. Both could see the storm of love and need and pleasure that tore through the other.

The private faces and sounds they made only for each other.

_ Sacred, _ they both thought.  _ This part of me is sacred and only for you. _

Dorian groaned when at last he spilled himself inside her. It was hot and thick and Manon savored the feel of it, of him like this. She removed her hand form between her legs as he collapsed on top of her. She wrapped her arms around him, panting. They kissed, quiety and softly, listening to the crackle of the fireplace.

She loved him like this. Sweaty and spent and still inside her. There were many things they needed to relearn about one another, still many things they needed to learn about themselves. But maybe happily ever after wasn’t about riding off into the sunset. Maybe it was about working for the next one and for the one after that. 

_ Maybe, _ they both thought,  _ happily ever after is an imperfect journey you share with the ones you love. _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PropShopHannah on Tumblr


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